Living with them can be mostly a drag.
I got them in Grade 10, a curse from Aphrodite.
I got them gift-wrapped under cotton shirts,
cotton bras, wonder bras
thirty dollar bras,
now 130 bare necessity bras,
with black lace, purple flowers, a life of heaviness.
I got cysts, I got a back problem,
I caress them, I lather them.
No selection of designer dresses,
no selection of any printed halter top
I ever want.
Frustrated, I buy anything.
No jacket will fit around my chest,
Settling for what fits around the breasts,
second to the heart’s best,
naked words between
the slope of material.
Laying down on the fathomless floor
of the ocean’s seaweed.
Stop complaining about your tits.
I got limited choices for a bikini
on a metal clothes rack out of 300,
picky people pick.
I got to pay a lot for those three ugly choices,
cancer could eat them up and take them,
then I will miss them.
But who knows what it’s like to love a Nina Simone song?
Never has slid out of fashion,
me and my first world problems.
A lover will never get tired of their softness, their mystique
sensuality, but eventually, everyone gets boring.
I can spend the night naked with them in bed,
half-crazy with the need to keep them soft.
Cocoa body butter, olive oil, tight shoulders, sore back.
But they’re still not ready to leave me,
their stay is not over yet,
they have tales to share that I know nothing about.
Photo by Jan Kopřiva on Unsplash
